


Breaking Habits

by Anatak



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Parents, Blood, Corporal Punishment, M/M, Punishment, Spanking, Violence, Whipping, bloodkink? but like not directly?? but maybe??, misuse of greenhouses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 04:14:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11005749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anatak/pseuds/Anatak
Summary: Some weird things happen in a greenhouse....





	Breaking Habits

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like it!!!  
> I think I might write a follow up for this but I'm not sure just yet ^-^

“Legolas, my son, don’t drift too far from your home, never let the call of the woods be the only one you hear.”  
The young elf had been told this for as long as he could remember. His father had always been watching him play, calling him back to safety as he climbed too high, or wandered too far out of sight.  
He was raised with the Silvan elves and, in his childhood, he played with them, never realising that he was not one of them. The Sindar within him was fading as fast as his youth and Thranduil refused to be the father of a self taught halfling. As the years went on, Thranduil became more strict with his son, desperately trying to take the Silvan ways out of him, banning him from the woods surrounding the castle. But Legolas wouldn’t listen and found himself being escorted from the woods by guards more often than not, and as he grew older and more skilled in climbing and hiding, he found himself needing to be returned home by Thranduil himself. He was always punished harshly, yet a deep rooted pull resided inside the boy, and he always found himself with dirty knees and leaves knotted into his hair.  
After decades of struggling the two finally found a middle ground. Legolas would be placed in the guard, and would be allowed into the woods to patrol, but for no longer than his shift, and under no circumstances was he to be left alone. Neither of the elves felt fully satisfied in this deal, but there was no alternative that they could find as favourable.  
~~~~~~  
Thranduil paced the great dining hall, food growing cold as he waited for Legolas. He had invited his son to dinner many weeks ago, to which he had received a rather enthusiastic response. There relationship was a strained one, and his agreement to the meal had pleased his father to no end. In his excitement Thranduil had taken the liberty of getting the perfect meal made, of ensuring Legolas had a schedule free of duties, of finding them both the most fitting attire. This evening was to be perfect in the eyes of his son, in the hopes it would allow them to become close once more. But when his son finally arrived, he had dirt on his green patrol tunic and on his face. Something was amiss.  
“I’m so sorry to be late Ada, I was caught out on patrol. Although I came as soon as I could, thus the somewhat inappropriate attire.” He gestured to his dirtied clothes but Thranduil's sight was drawn into the boy's hands instead. His fingers were stained green, the way a child's may become when they play in grass or amongst flowers. Thranduil looked over his son for a moment, wondering if he should let the lie sit and simply enjoy the now cold meal, or if he should challenge his son. He had almost decided when he was suddenly confronted with the question of how many times Legolas had used that lie on him. How many false trips had the young elf taken? How many times had he abused the freedom he had been given simply to go gallivanting through the trees?  
“Pardon?” Legolas asked softly, his father then realised he had spoken aloud and their fates were sealed.  
“How many times? How many times have you lied to me, child?” The king's voice carried through the air, bleeding confidence and anger, the likes of which would send elves running were they not his son.  
“I don’t know what you mean..” The younger elf tried as the elder glided across the room and grabbed the front of his sons shirt roughly.  
“You’ve been caught, don’t make this worse on yourself ion nin.”  
“I swear, I would never lie to you Ada!” And with that he was thrown to the floor, the side of his face hitting the ground, the highest parts of his cheek bruising immediately. He coughed hard at the sudden impact, his hair fell around his face as his lungs heaved, desperately trying to pull in air.  
He hadn't noticed his father sauntering towards him, until he was torn from the ground, hands grabbed tightly onto the back of his hair. He was raised to his feet, and then just slightly more, so that his toes barely grazed the floor, and his back arched painfully into the grip of his father. Legolas’ hands snapped up to the others wrist and held fast, for fear of being thrown once more, and so that his father could not pull him back any further.  
Tears started streaming from his eyes and burning into his wounded cheek. Thranduil moved closer to his son, standing so close he could hear his quivering breath and feel the heat escaping his body.  
“That, my child, is a lie in itself.” He stressed the word ‘child’ so as to remind Legolas, that despite his title as prince, and his responsibilities, he was still only young, his years dwarfed in comparison to his father’s. It was a reminder that Legolas’ care was still the responsibility of the king.  
“I’m not lying Ada! I promise!” He was sobbing now, for in all his years, and for all his mistakes, never had his father raised a hand towards him, although he had never lied before either.  
“And now you break your promises to me?” He began walking then, forcing Legolas forward with an action somewhere between pushing him and dragging him. “Let us see what other promises you have broken, shall we?”  
Legolas’ cries of pain echoed through the quiet castle as he stumbled down the halls, but nobody dared to intervene, lest they bring the Kings rage upon themselves. He apologised and pleaded between his choking sobs, his weak convulsions pulling him against his own hair.  
Thranduil led his son out of the castle and into a forbidden area of the wood. With every step the younger elves cries turned into soft whimpers and eventually into silence as his will to fight drained out of him. This far from the castle, nobody could hear him scream anyway, and for just a moment he feared his father might kill him out here, returning the boy's limp body into the woods he wishes so strongly to call home.  
The darkness of the woods was thick and Legolas felt like he was drowning in it, tripping over roots and rocks that lurked invisible on the forest floor. There was a faint light in the far distance, although it did little to help his pathetic fumbling. As they neared it, it became clear that it was a greenhouse, and the young elf found a momentary distraction from the pain and he wondered why it might be there, so far out from the castle. As he grew nearer he could feel a kind of familiarity with the building, he could feel his fëa reaching out to return to a place he couldn’t remember having ever been before. Thranduil felt the shift within his son and knew that his son was still yet to understand the significance of this place.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The air inside the greenhouse was heavy with the scent of roses and ivy, mixed with the strong, almost honey like scent of his father that seemed to welcome them in. The room was large and featured two roaring fireplaces and a large wooden desk which was bare, save for a few stains and the odd leaf. The walls were almost fully covered in climbing plants, growing untamed and debatably wild. The rose vines licked the glass roof, stretching high towards a moonless sky, as the ivy rubbed against their ankles, gently caressing the boy's shins.  
Legolas paused in the doorway, overcome with a harsh wave of unnamable nostalgia. His father allowed him this moment, for no reason other than curiosity. The room seemed to sooth the younger elf in a way nobody could have ever imagined, and before he could fully comprehend what he was doing, he found himself leaning into his father. His body feather light against his muscular elder and he relaxed, a single memory dragging him away.  
Thranduil released his grip on his son’s hair, the soft pressure of his body insurance enough that he wasn’t going to try to run, although he did still reach down and grab onto the fabric around the small of the boys back.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Legolas could see himself, an elfling still, dragging his father's chair across the floor, the heavy sound still rang in his mind. He wanted to pick the roses from the top to give to his father, to prove he could do it, to prove a point that he was still to young to make. He climbed onto the chair that nearly doubled his height and reached for the large red flowers. They were days past their peak and where wilting fast, but they were still beautiful. He needed to get them for his father, he wanted so desperately to show himself to be a good son but something happened and he found himself on the ground, a bloody heap nestled away in a wall of thorns.  
He can remember the chair laying on it’s side before him and his father running over to him. Pulling the crying child into his chest and making soft soothing sounds, he carried his son to the castle. As the memory faded away Legolas could hear his father’s voice, whispering softly into his hair.  
“Please don’t let the plant’s take you away from me. Don’t disobey me for them ion nin.”  
And as everything turned to black, he could hear a weak voice reply, “I won’t, I promise Ada.”  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The boy turned and grabbed the lapels of his father's cloak, whose arm now wrapped around his son’s waist and he held more tightly to the fabric of his tunic. The child began crying, which quickly turned into sobbing. The sobbing slowly became worse as he drifted into something closed to violently heaving and he pulled himself against his father, tears being wiped away by the thick layers of clothing. His son coughed out weak apologies which were met by an affectionate hand in his hair, the action soothing both father and son. Thranduil nearly forgetting his sons earlier betrayal.  
He no longer felt the rage he had in the great dining hall, all he felt was love, and compassion, and he knew this was going to make punishing Legolas all the more difficult. But it was what he deserved, and Thranduil was the King, so he knew he sometimes had to do things he didn’t want to, especially if it was for the betterment of his people.  
The King held his weeping son for another moment, soothing the boy, but also trying the become accustomed to his tears. Trying to drink in the sounds of his sobs, numbing his palette to the suffering of the elfling he cared for so deeply.  
He took a deep breath and used his light grip on his son’s back to pull them apart and toss the boy against the desk. The throw was was so gentle, as if Thranduil had taken pity on the child, knowing what might come next. The boy stumbled through the webs of ivy and hit the desk with his chest, a fractured gasp escaping him as the air was forced from his lungs. He was overcome by shock and confusion at his father's sudden change and the fear he had felt earlier had returned to him.  
Thranduil moved across the room, long strides covering ground quickly, and replaced a hand on the small of his son’s back, pinning him to the desk. The elfling struggled, trying to squirm his way out of his father’s strong grip. The elder could feel his son’s back tensing and contracting below his hand and he could feel Legolas’ bones moving under his fingers, much like the body of a cat, slender yet muscular. The back of his ribs writhed below the flesh and it appealed to something dark within the King.  
“The fighting nature,” he thought to himself, “it needs to be broken. Its keeping him from his people. Break the bond between the boy and the plants…”  
He had planned to hit his son out in the greenhouse, to correct the child’s behaviour with an open hand, but the way Legolas still fought, the way his guilt and sadness was not yet enough to sedate him; it made Thranduil do something wholly unexpected. He reached into the garden wall and ripped away a branch from a rose plant. The thorns cut into his palm and a drop of blood dripped down the stalk.  
The branch was no longer then a cane and he flicked it through the air several times before bringing it down hard against Legolas’ still clothed rear. The boy screamed out a dry sound, unobstructed by tears; it was a sound of sheer pain. Thranduil hit the boy again before his scream had a chance to die, the thorns ripped into his tights and skin alike.  
Maybe the branch was too thin, or his emotion was too great, but as Thranduil made a third strike, the ‘cane’ snapped on the boys body. He wept now as the pain seared into his him, and he thought it would last forever. Time slowed to a halt between lashes, as he lived a cycle of pain and fear, each chasing the other.  
The older elf looked at the broken plant in his hand and simply tossed it aside, pulling a new piece and continuing as his son’s legs trembled and the desk held more of his weight. The young elf pulled at the wood on the far end, knuckles growing whiter with each strike, as his fingers bit into the wood.  
The lashes hit harder and faster, drifting away from a rhythmic punishment and towards a near brutalisation. Blood stained Legolas’ tights and he writhed in pain. His father broke may more branches, and easily replaced them, and as he slowly destroyed the garden he so too destroyed his son’s connection to it.  
Redness stained the child’s clothes and ran down the back of his thighs, the flesh becoming slowly exposed as his shredded fabric fell away. Each draw back of the ‘cane’ found blood flicking up onto his father's face, something that didn’t seem to slow him down at all, maybe even encouraged him somewhat.  
Thranduil swung down yet again, although this time he followed the hit through, and ripped a channel through his son’s tender body. The elfling let out a scream that left blood in his throat that he coughed onto the desk, and Thranduil watched, a hungry gleam in his eye. The boy had screamed the word ‘Ada’ and it hung in the air around him, the wheezing sounds of his son filling the otherwise empty air.  
The bloody wounds throbbed, rocking waves of pain through him as if the lashings never stopped, and he laid broken on the desk, his frail body giving in finally, his fingers releasing the wood. The hand that had previously held legolas down now softly rubbed his back, working knots out of his cramping muscles, and trying to ease any unnecessary suffering. He let the rose slide out of his hand and it hit the floor audibly, causing Legolas to flinch, the sudden motion causing all of his muscles to tense yet his broken nature remained the same. He was still all sweaty hair and limp body, bloody thighs and raw voice.  
“Now Legolas, my child, you are not to lie to me.” He now hit his son with an open palm, blood quickly covering his hand. The boy let out another scream and could feel the blood in the back of his throat once more and he new he was in bad shape, his elven body wasn’t meant to be treated like this.  
“Yes Ada….” The broken prince managed.  
“You must not break your promises to me.” He struck again, notably softer this time and the elfling did not scream, as if he had become too accustomed and almost felt relieved that the impact was gently enough to not damage him further.  
“Yes Ada….” The King could feel his son’s back relaxing as he submitted to his father, letting him know that he had finally broken inside and giving himself over to Thranduil.  
“And you must leave the woods behind ion nin, they are no good for you.” He hit once more.  
Legolas paused for a second, and Thranduil was quick to repeat himself, and again punctuate it with a hit from his increasingly bloody hand. This hit was much harder and the sound echoed off the walls, followed by the sound of wood cracking as Legolas grabbed onto the desk with such force that it splintered in places.  
The boy still didn’t respond and so Thranduil repeated the action, over and over until his son was whimpering and writhing and letting out moaning sobs, but he still wouldn’t give a response. Even after all the bloodshed, he persisted in his desire to return to the woods. Even after being broken and battered by his father it was still something he held dear to his heart.  
This would not stand with Thranduil, and he quickly pulled another branch. Legolas tried to pull himself out of his father's grip and climb away but his body was to weak, and his will was even weaker as his father whipped him. The older elf now truly let himself be angry and each lash he placed on his son was followed by broken branches, bloody coughs and violent sobs. His son screamed with such force that he could feel it burning through his own throat, but he had to admit that some part of him was enjoying this, some twisted part that edged him on.  
He destroyed almost half of the greenhouse, and all of the skin on Legolas’ backside, not to mention the stray marks on his thighs and back. There was one final blow to the child's upper thighs before he faltered and it was all too much, his scream ending midway as his body crumbled into the desk. After hours of violent abuse he had finally succumbed to the pain, letting his body fall out of consciousness finally.  
“He will be a hard one to break,” Thranduil thought to himself as he tossed away a final rose, blood clinging to the stem where a flower should be, “but it must be done.”


End file.
